Who knew?

Westerly

Easterly

Southerly

Northerly

Directions

Blown

behind a morning

behind a morning
sun risen to refraction
heaven obscured by light

Second Decade

Mare Marginis

Was that not it? In our formative years,
Hardly begun when the old men settled
Into wistful jingo (having never had it so good),
Time wove its spell on them, drew its veil,
Washed us all in their cold water tomorrows.

Woodsman

I made my path following rutted traces
worn by feet neither mine nor yours
through blown and bending grasses.